


Lean on Me

by Imjusthereforfun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-27 23:29:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16712050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imjusthereforfun/pseuds/Imjusthereforfun
Summary: “You don’t have to, but you do, and that is what makes you, well, you, John. And that’s why I love you.  You brilliant, brave, determined man."





	Lean on Me

John snuggled further into his coat as the car pulled away from the curb. The crime scene quickly disappeared around the corner as Lestrade guided his car into the flow of London traffic, and John hated himself for being glad to see it go. 

For four days, he and Sherlock had chased a kidnapper across the city. Upset over his recent divorce, the kidnapper had killed his ex-wife and picked up their 6-year-old daughter from school. The children’s grandmother had alerted authorities when the child wasn’t at the school, ready to go to granny’s as she normally did when her mother had the afternoon shift at the hospital. The mother was found dead in her apartment and the father was tracked by Sherlock and John. Determined to get the girl back alive, Sherlock had been even more cautious in his pursuit, though compared to his normal head-first approach, anything that exhibited even the slightest care for safety would be considered cautious. 

What made John shudder was that they did not know if all their care had been for naught. They had caught up with the father in an apartment complex that was under construction. Having worked on the project until his obsession over his ex-wife had forced his employer to fire him, the father knew how to get in and had hunkered down for the past 18 hours, holding his daughter hostage, a very illegal handgun within arm’s reach at all time. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a good enough shot for a sniper who take without possibly harming the girl and the negotiator from Scotland Yard had tried to talk the man out of his dire circumstances. It had worked until the father started bringing the girl out and saw the amassed police cars and officers at the scene. He immediate took a shot at the girl before turning the gun on himself. 

John and EMTs on scene immediately fell upon the scene, trying to stem the flow of blood coming from the child’s back. As he had pressed a handful of gauze into the deep wound in the 6 year old girl, he prayed fervently to any diety that would listen for the little girl to survive. She was quickly bundled into an ambulance and driven away. 

And that was how John was left to ponder the past four days while sitting in the back of Lestrade’s vehicle, his hands clean but blood staining the end of his sleeves. Not having slept for four days, Sherlock had practically swayed with exhaustion when the ambulances had left the scene. Seeing such a sign of fatigue and having watched John feverishly scrub his hands clean using skin wipes from the remaining ambulance, Lestrade had herded the two into the back of his vehicle to drive them back to 221b Baker Street before continuing to his own home. 

As the car pulled to a stop, John sighed and opened the door, not noticing a slight tremble in his hand as he grasped the handle, but Sherlock did. John absentmindedly nodded to Lestrade in thanks, not comprehending that Lestrade was discretely whispering orders to Sherlock and Sherlock responding in kind. John just wanted to shower in the hottest water his skin would tolerate then sleep for days. It had been years since John had gone days without sleep, but this case had left him staring at the ceiling whenever he tried to get a few hours of sleep. His body was paying for it now, and through sheer force of want to be washed of the child’s blood on his sleeves, he would have happily curled up on the steps of 221b and slept there. 

As he ascended the stairs to the flat, he heard Sherlock wearily shut the door behind them and start to ascend the stairs. He vaguely registered Sherlock’s low tones speaking to Mrs. Hudson as he paused on the stairs, but John had no idea what was being said.

He continued up the stairs and went straight to the washroom, stripping off his coat and sweater and dropping them to the floor as he went. If he had been more awake, he might have justified this action by saying it was about time he had a chance to cause a mess in the flat, but he wasn’t. There was no more thought put into it than the base idea that it was the most energy efficient way to get the clothes off him and somewhere that wasn’t his body. When he reached the washroom, he immediately turned the knob for hot water to as high as it would go. He stood and watched the water start to flow, and eventually steam started to gather as he ducked under the spray. Immediately, the system he had use in Afghanistan kicked in, methodically washing away the worst of the sweat and gore in an efficient manner. Muscle memory that John had wished he would never have to use again took over and when John came back to himself, he was turning off the water and toweling down with a towel that was certainly not there when he had entered the bathroom, but John didn’t notice this. Nor did he note, as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants, a well-worn t shirt, and a pair of knobby socks, that these items of clothing hadn’t been there either. 

He left the bathroom when he finally noticed these discrepancies, as his clothing that had been strewn along the path between the stairs and the washroom were gone. Not that he cared, he had decided during the drive home that he was going to burn that sweater (or at least throw in away, if he wasn’t in the mood for dramatics), but the coat he had wanted to save.

“They’re soaking in the mudroom downstairs.” Sherlock said from the kitchen. He had also changed clothing, but not having come in contact with blood, had simply taken off his suit and put on his pajamas and silk robe. The adrenaline was clearing wearing out, as his close to perfect posture was gone, his shoulders slumped, cradling a mug between two hands. A second mug sat on the counter next to him, as well as a plate of ginger cookies that Mrs. Hudson had foisted upon them two days ago in an attempt to get Sherlock to eat something. 

John’s hand trembled again as he reached for the second mug, but he was stopped as Sherlock grasped his wrist, tired eyes sharp as he observed the tremor. 

“It’s the adrenaline. That’s all.” Sherlock observed, now seeing for the first time that John’s entire body had a slight tremor to it. It had escaped his attention when John was swaddled in his sweater and jacket, but in just a t-shirt, it was unmistakable that John was coming down from an adrenaline rush.

John stared at Sherlock as the meaning of his works sunk in alarmingly slowly. 

“I’m not regressing.”

“After the last four days, I wouldn’t have blamed you. Especially tonight.” John’s breath caught at Sherlock’s words and to hide the effect they had on him, he quickly pulled his wrist free and grabbed the mug on the counter. Turning away from him, John hunched around the warm mug, letting the warmth sink into his hands, letting in spread throughout his body as he walked to his chair, too tired to even consider walking up a flight of stairs to the bedroom. 

Mind-numbing weariness swept over him. He was past being able to function based on muscle memory and his entire body started to revolt against the abuse it had faced the past four days and he all but collapsed into his chair, tea coming dangerously close to sloshing over the rim of its mug.

“I don’t know if she’ll make it.” John let out with a gasp. As his energy left him, so too did the inhibitions that had kept his feelings bottled in the past 4 days. The warm mug was pulled from his hand gently, and held up to his lips. He took a large gulp, his tongue stinging slightly as the hot, sugary liquid washed away the sick taste he hadn’t noticed was coating his mouth until then. He closed his eyes as he heard the mug be placed gently on the mantle and a soft voice start to speak.

“You did everything you could. We did everything we could.” That became a mantra as John slouched into his chair, his arms coming to rest on his abdomen, absentmindedly (because that was the only way John was going to be able to do anything right now) hugging himself in a parody of comfort. It was also the last thing John heard as he drifted off to sleep.

 

John awoke to the soft sound of Sherlock’s violin. It was playing a slow tune, but it wasn’t a sad one. 

“She made it through surgery. The doctors say she has a really good chance of getting through this with minimal lasting effects. Lasting physical effects, at least.”

John sobbed as he heard this, letting his relief explode out of him. He quickly leaned forward to bury his head in his hands, though his back protested fiercely from sleeping slumped in his armchair. John felt a great burden leave him, though the weight of a hand came to rest on his right shoulder. 

“The surgeons said that It was only because of the care she received on site that she survived.”

This new information didn’t make John stop sobbing. If nothing else, he sobbed harder, his shoulders shaking in relief. The hand on his shoulder was lifted and suddenly rested on his left knee. John lifted his head to see Sherlock kneeling on the rug in front of him. Sherlock’s other hand rose to cradle the side of John’s face. His thumb carefully brushed away a tear. 

“I’m an army doctor. I shouldn’t have to keep little girls alive.” John whispered, his eyes downcast, staring at Sherlock’s grey t-shirt. 

“You don’t have to, but you do, and that is what makes you, well, you, John.” Sherlock’s eyes were soft in the early morning light. Dawn was breaking through the window behind the curly-haired man, making his hair appear halo-like as John raised his hand in a reflection of Sherlock’s. “And that’s why I love you. You brilliant, brave, determined man.”

John cracked a smile at Sherlock’s declaration. “I love you, too”. Sherlock’s eyes crinkled as he broke out into a genuine smile, one of the smiles he reserved for John alone. “Let’s go upstairs. I still feel like I could sleep for days and you probably do too.” Sherlock just slowly rose to his feet, holding out a hand to pull John into a standing position. 

After a quick excursion to the bathroom, John curled up in bed slowly, sinking into the mattress. Sherlock quickly joined him. Sherlock curled around John’s back and reached an arm across the shorter man’s chest. John lifted his hand and intertwined his fingers with those of his partner, relaxing into the strong warmth at his back. Sherlock placed a soft kiss at the nape of John’s neck before he finally let himself sleep. John quickly followed, as he always did and always would.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'm a graduate student who has decided to get back into writing, but does not have the time or energy to make original characters. This piece is unbeta'ed and with the amount of time I have to spend proof-reading academic papers, I don't always take the same care here.


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